


that boy is a monster

by seventhstar, thishasbeencary



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Modification, Body snatching, Bodyswap, Consent Issues, Lies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12211860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishasbeencary/pseuds/thishasbeencary
Summary: Viktor is almost thirty. It’s only a matter of time.The "Viktor Nikiforov is a body-stealing monster" AU.





	1. suffering of suffering

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please heed the warnings on this. More detailed, spoilery warnings are in the end notes. If you think something needs to be tagged that isn't, let us know in the comments.
> 
> In the interest of heading off any "oh my god how could you" comments: yes, this is deeply fucked up. Yes, we know. It's supposed to be.
> 
> ALSO: arkadyevna did the most incredible podfic of this fic! it is, imo, in some ways a better experience than reading the fic; they captured viktor's tone and way of talking absolutely perfectly. [You can listen to it here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363466)

Sometimes Yuri still wakes up in the middle of the night screaming.

Viktor, smiling at him, the last time Yuri ever saw him. The young French ballerina, hair dark and eyes darker, cutting her own throat as Viktor grappled with her, begging her to stop. The blood splattered up fake Viktor’s arms as he let out a distinctly French exclamation of disgust and let the body fall to the ground.

Viktor Nikiforov didn’t even speak French.

His grandfather comforts him as best he can.  _ It’s not real, Yura. You’re all right, Yura, You’re safe. _

All lies, of course. Yuri knows that what he saw—whatever it was—was real. He knows he’s not safe, and that fake Viktor might decide to get rid of him, or worse yet, replace him, at any moment. 

But when his grandfather hugs him, Yuri nods and tells him he’s fine. He’s not going back to the institution. Someone has to keep an eye on Viktor. Yuri’s family is safe now, because his grandfather is old and his mother walks with a limp. He’s tracked Viktor far back enough to know he only steals the bodies of young, healthy people.

Viktor is almost thirty. It’s only a matter of time.

 

* * *

 

There is no denying it any longer.

Viktor sighs at his reflection. It is a good face, with sharp bone structure and pretty eyes. The shoulders are broad. The legs are unreal. It is such a good body.

And it’s balding.

He’s only twenty-seven! Viktor hoped to hold onto this one until it was really old. Maybe even past thirty-five, if it aged well and the arthritis remained bearable. Ice skating is the most fun he’s had in at least a century, and while being famous has started to wear on him a bit, being a retired celebrity certainly looks interesting. He had plans for the Nikiforov body. 

Well, he’s been thinking about retiring after the season, hasn’t he? He’ll just alter his plans a little. After Worlds, he’ll go on a nice vacation somewhere and start scouting for a replacement body. Something shorter, maybe. And not so pale. Maybe he can find a nice racecar driver or a chef—something he hasn’t done in a while. Something  _ exciting. _

Something that will make him feel a little less empty.

Viktor straightens his tie as he hears a loud knock on his hotel room door; it’s Yuri, demanding Viktor  _ come out right now, they were late, you stupid old man. _ He sighs again. Balding! He can’t believe it. And now he’ll have to show his face at the banquet and wonder if anyone of them have noticed.

It’s just a few hours. Viktor ruffles Yuri’s hair and laughs as he squawks indignantly. He’ll endure it.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri Katsuki is the most beautiful person in the world. In the universe. In all the universes.

“I want his body,” Viktor breathes.

“Slow down, Romeo,” someone—Chris?—says. 

_ Oh. Sex. _ Viktor meant—but there is no harm in taking it for a test drive before he moves in, is there?

 

* * *

 

“You’re so impulsive.” Yakov shoves him at the gate. 

Viktor waves goodbye as he gets in line to board the plane. He is not impulsive. He intends to scout Yuuri for at least two days, or however long it takes to get into his pants, before he steals his body. And not just because it’ll take at least that long to arrange a suitably dramatic death for the Nikiforov body.

Drowning, maybe? There are hot springs in Yuuri’s family inn. And it will be easy to time it so Yuuri is the one who finds him. He’ll bend over the corpse and Viktor will be inside him before he knows what’s happened. 

_ Who knows, _ Viktor thinks.  _ I might like coaching and decide to try it out for a bit. I can really put Yuuri through his paces, too. See what kind of capability his body has before I move in. _

 

_ * * * _

 

“They’re my favorite food!” Yuuri explains with a smile, and Viktor can’t help but note how pure and genuine that smile is. It is a good smile, something he’ll be glad to have as his own.

“Yuuri would only get to eat them after competitions,” His friend explains. (Yuuri doesn’t have too many of them; that will make the transition easier. Fewer people to fool.) Yuuri’s cheeks turn red; he has a cute blush. Viktor smiles to himself, but eyes what he isn’t so sure about on Yuuri’s body.

“So you’ve eaten them often?” Viktor eyes Yuuri’s stomach, which bulges much more than it did when he met him at the banquet. Nothing that he can’t take care of, but also nothing that he wants to deal with when Yuuri’s body becomes his.

“All the time!”

“But you haven't won anything.” Viktor smirks, taking a bite of the food, smiling. “You’ll have to get back to competition weight, or you won’t step foot on the ice.”

If Yuuri can’t accomplish it, Viktor will just do it for himself. But it’ll be so much more convenient if Yuuri can just lose a few pounds and actually be ready for how Viktor wants him.

He’ll have to at least stay in Japan (and Nikiforov) until Yuuri is back in shape so Viktor can take his body and immediately be in a position to carry on how he wants to.

 

* * *

 

“I know why you’re here,” Yuri hisses, pinning fake Viktor against a wall in the room he found empty furthest from Yuuri’s. Yuuri doesn’t need to hear this.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Yuri.” Fake Viktor casually shoves him off of him, fixing him with a dark, challenging look, and Yuri clenches his fists in frustration.

“Don’t act like I’m crazy. I know what you did to her.” Yuri puffs out his chest, ready to threaten fake Viktor, and fake Viktor laughs gleefully.

“You’re lucky Yakov isn’t around to hear you talk about your delusions again. You know he’d send you back at the first sign that you were relapsing, Yurio.” Fake Viktor smiles, a fake smile; it’s  a different from his usual smiles for the public. This is threatening, terrifying.

“You know they’re all wrong,” Yuri whispers, refusing to break eye contact. “You know what you are.”

“And what am I?” Fake Viktor asks. Yuri keeps his breathing even only by force.

“A body stealing monster,” Yuri whispers, breathing out when fake Viktor doesn’t immediately threaten him. He dares to continue. “And I won’t let you take Yuuri. You’ve been here long enough, I don’t know what your plan is, but it’s any day now, and—-“

“Ah, Yurio! I was going to wait! I want to get to know his friends and family! And he still needs to lose some weight! And I’d like to sleep with him before Nikiforov tragically dies,” Fake Viktor muses, completely seriously, and Yuri can feel his face shift into one of horror.

“You asshole! You fucking monster!” Yuri shouts, not caring about good judgment. He impulsively lifts his fist to try to punch fake Viktor in the face, but fake Viktor stops him, and Yuri’s common sense catches up with him. As does his panic.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Fake Viktor grabs Yuri’s fist and shoves it down. He crosses his arms, like he has no need to defend himself, his expression challenging. “After all, what if you bruised me? Or broke something?” Fake Viktor sing-songs, as he examines his nails.

“You’re a monster,” Yuri mutters, shoving Viktor again. 

Fake Viktor grabs onto his arm. The worst case scenarios flashes through his mind. He isn’t going to wait for Yuuri. Yuri is young, he’ll take him then and there, and then still pursue Yuuri, and fake some awful death for his body and— 

“Don’t test me, Yurio. You’re still young. And so talented, too.” Fake Viktor traces a finger against his arm as he lets go, shoving Yuri away from him hard. Yuri stumbles backwards and falls to the floor, staring up at Fake Viktor. “It would be a shame if something were to happen to Nikiforov, wouldn’t it? Tragically drowning in the hot springs? Hanging himself to death? What do you think?” Fake Viktor walks toward Yuri, and Yuri scoots away until his back hits the wall.

“Don’t touch me,” he gasps, shielding his face with his hands. It is all he can do to keep from crying, or worse. From falling into a panicked breakdown, like when he was a child.

“Then don’t overstep your boundaries. You can’t stop me, whether you know what I want or not. And I wouldn’t suggest you try.” Fake Viktor walks away from Yuri, opening the door and stepping out of his room.

Yuri works to slowly regain his breathing, watching him retreat before shutting the door after him. He curls up against the wall.

He has to keep Yuuri safe.

 

* * *

 

He should do it soon.

Viktor watches Yuuri wander down the beach, Makkachin at his heels. His stroll becomes a dance, and then it’s Eros, done with Yuuri’s bare feet sinking into the sand.  _ He works hard _ , Viktor thinks; Viktor has to drag him off the ice at night sometimes.

Yuuri’s at his competition weight again. He’s young, has had no major injuries, and has excellent stamina. (He also has thick, luscious hair.) They’re only a few months out from the domestic competitions. If Viktor does it now, he’ll have time to pretend to mourn, an excuse to seem different from Yuuri’s normal self while he adjusts to a new body, and a chance to compete next season. With Yuuri’s idolization of him, it will seem perfectly natural for Yuuri to mimic Viktor’s current style or learn his signature jumps.

It’s a perfect situation. It’s exactly what Viktor had in mind when he came to Japan.

Yuuri is in the water with Makkachin; the two of them are splashing each other. There’s something endearing about the way Yuuri dotes on the poodle. Every time Viktor thinks he’s figured Yuuri out, some new facet of him emerges. Like a diamond in the light, every new glint of light catches Viktor’s eye.

He’s going to have to decide how he’ll mark the occasion, when he does it. Viktor always makes some modification to the body once he has it. Tattoos, piercings, putting on twenty pounds of muscle. 

(With the Nikiforov body it was the hair. The body’s original occupant was vain about it; Viktor remembers standing before the mirror and thinking that his last body had long hair, and it was a pain to maintain. He cut it himself, bent over the bathroom sink, and laughed at the stolen memory of the former Viktor’s expensive preferred salon.)

Maybe he’ll get contacts. Yuuri has lovely eyes.

He follows Yuuri down into the sea; the waves lap over them. Salt clings to the hollow of Yuuri’s throat. Viktor licks his lips. 

He could drown, right now. Yuuri will try to save him, and that’ll be the end of it. It will be painless. Quick. Easy.

Not that it matters if Yuuri gets hurt…

“What?” Yuuri asks, as he catches Viktor’s wrist. When Viktor looks at him he drops it like it’s a hot coal. “You’re staring.”

“You’re beautiful,” Viktor says carelessly. 

He watches the blush blossom on Yuuri’s cheeks. 

“...okay.” 

Viktor could watch him and try to puzzle out his thoughts for hours—days—months—

It can’t hurt to wait a little longer. He‘ll get bored of this, eventually. He always does.

 


	2. suffering of change

Yuuri’s skating is transcendent.

Viktor feels dizzy when he spins. Yuuri’s love saturates the air around him, emotion spilling from with every flick of his fingers and every slide of his skates against the ice. It’s a heavy performance, but Yuuri looks light as air, like his soul has slipped out of his body and is dancing unencumbered in a shower of glitter and ice shavings. Longing wells up in Viktor, deep and strong and unfamiliar.

Yuuri jumps, then twists in midair like he’s flying, falls. Does Viktor’s signature jump, the one he obsessed over doing because Nikiforov hadn’t been able to.

 _For me,_ Viktor thinks, heart wild. _He’s doing this for me._

He expects to feel the pull then, the desire to detach from his current flesh and settle into the marrow of Yuuri’s pretty bones. But instead he feels an emptiness, a chill, a need for the warmth of Yuuri’s embrace, the softness of his eyes, the way he smiles at Viktor like—

“I did great, right?”

Viktor kisses him. They tumble onto the ice together, Yuuri’s head cradled in Viktor’s palm. Yuuri’s mouth is like any other mouth—Viktor has never cared for kissing before—but Yuuri’s eyes are shining and Viktor would kill everyone in this arena to keep them that way.

So this is what ‘love’ is.

It’s terrifying.

Viktor gives himself a moment to mourn his beauty; if the Nikiforov body is balding at twenty seven, it’ll be hideous by the time he’s fifty. He’ll have to get used to the sight of his expanding forehead now.

He nuzzles into Yuuri’s shoulder and accepts his fate. He’s not going anywhere.

 

* * *

 

“Last year, I couldn’t even talk to Viktor,” Yuuri laughs, and Viktor sits there frozen, staring at the man he’s given up everything for. That is _ridiculous._

“You don’t remember?”

Last year’s banquet was when Viktor decided that he wanted Yuuri’s body. Last year’s banquet was the beginning of the end for Viktor, and Yuuri doesn’t even think he talked to him.

The other skaters recount the story, and Yuuri just looks shocked. Viktor watches him, eyes wide. Yuuri doesn’t remember that moment, hanging off of Viktor telling him to be his coach. Changing Viktor’s life forever, even though Viktor didn’t know it at the moment. He touches his finger to the ring now on his finger, before pulling out his own phone to show Yuuri his pictures from that night.

“What’s with the rings, you two?” Chris questions with a wink. Yuuri starts trying to defend them and Viktor rolls his eyes, butting in and holding his up for everyone to see.

“They’re a pair!” He’s given up his hedonistic lifestyle for Yuuri; he isn’t about to let him deny that they are wearing matching rings. They are a pair, they mean that Yuuri and Viktor are tied together, they mean that—

“Congrats on your marriage!” Phichit shouts, clapping, and Viktor is pretty sure that his heart is going to stop. He hasn’t thought of that. He has…forever given himself to Yuuri. They are…He can get married?

He’s never gotten married before. Phichit continues going on in excitement, and Viktor stares at his ring in thought. Is that really where he is now? He ‘s going to _let_ himself grow old for someone else’s sake? It is disgusting, he is already balding; it can’t be that much longer before he gets wrinkles, or some other horrific sign of his age.

But then he meets Yuuri’s eyes, right before Yuuri starts to deny that they are getting married, and Viktor’s mind is made up.

“Don’t get the wrong idea!” Yuuri shouts.

Viktor cuts him off.

“Yeah.” Viktor holds up his hand casually, his eyes on nothing but Yuuri. “This is just an engagement ring, right, Yuuri?” Viktor grins, and he can feel Yuri Plisetsky’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

Let him glare.

“Viktor!” Yuuri shouts, covering his mouth with his hands, and Viktor smiles.

“We’ll get married when he wins a gold medal,” Viktor continues, looking at Yuuri. All that he wants is to love him and to devote his entire life to him. His entire life, not just the natural lifespan of the Nikiforov body. Nikiforov’s body is already failing him, and if Viktor has the choice, he’ll leave the body immediately. But without the full assurance that Yuuri will follow him in any body? Viktor doesn’t dare leave this one behind.

“Wait!” The Canadian skater, whatever his name is, speaks.

Viktor rolls his eyes, putting his arm around his Yuuri as the conversation halts.

“I’ll be the one winning gold and getting married!” he continues.

Viktor blinks.

It would be too obvious to kill him here, right? Viktor doesn’t even know the Canadian’s name (well, now he does, because his girlfriend just called him “JJ”. What kind of a dumb name is JJ?); he can’t kill him. Plus, doing it now means he’ll run the risk of getting caught. So he stands up, taking Yuuri’s hand, and leading the rest of them out of the restaurant.

Yuri Plisetsky walks close behind them, and kicks the back of Viktor’s heel. Viktor stumble a little, and turns to eye him. Yuri looks him back in the eyes. It’s a challenge: he’s just physically assaulted Viktor and still Viktor has done nothing.

For once, Yuri Plisetsky is wrong. Viktor smirks at him, wrapping his arm around Yuuri’s waist.

He is getting married, and no one will stop him.

 

* * *

 

Yuri spits at fake Viktor before kicking him.

Fake Viktor seizes him by the chin and leans in close.

In that moment, Yuri’s life flashes before his eyes, and he stands still, staring into fake Viktor’s eyes, his heart pounding. This is it, it is over. It is _all over._ Fake Viktor is going to take him. Yuri was right all along; their engagement is fake, and fake Viktor is going to jump into Yuri’s body.

It makes sense, since fake Viktor has only been here for Yuuri’s body anyway. He’s lured him in close, gotten engaged with him, maybe to make the murder of fake Viktor’s body more disastrous, and then he’ll take over Yuuri’s body, and act like that was who he is. They’re engaged for his story, because all people are for fake Viktor anyway are pieces in a game.

It will be a heartbreaking story, won’t it? Viktor Nikiforov dies in Russia, a heart attack or some shit that will give the monster time to jump into Yuri’s body? He finishes the season as Yuri, and then kills him too, in some gruesome way, before moving onto Yuuri.

Might as well have a good last few minutes. Yuri glares straight into fake Viktor’s eyes, slamming his foot down onto his. “Where are you going with this? You should know better, you’re not going to last like this. From the second you jumped into that body, Viktor Nikiforov was dead.”

“You know,” fake Viktor muses, looking at his ring thoughtfully, “I’ve never liked you, Plisetsky. You know too much.” He glares at Yuri. “A few months ago, I would have killed you for that, easily. Your body is in better shape than Nikiforov’s. It would be tragic, wouldn’t it? Nikiforov tragically dies and you go on to finish his life… his… legacy.” This is it, isn’t it? This is the end, and fake Viktor is giving his evil villain speech before jumping into Yuri’s body just for the sake of killing him.

“Then get it over with, old man! Kill me!” False confidence is the only thing keeping him from crying in this moment, but he knows his body is quaking in fake Viktor’s arms. Fake Viktor can take him in an instant, and this will all be over.

“I’d love to,” fake Viktor says, but then he drops Yuri, pushing him forward. Yuri stumbles and falls, staring up at fake Viktor. He knows his eyes are full of terror. Fake Viktor likes that, doesn’t he? This thing that took over someone so integral in Yuri’s life will get joy out of his terror when he kills him.

“Then stop hesitating!” It’s better to get it over with.

“Yuuri would be upset. For some reason he seems unreasonably fond of you.” Fake Viktor pushes himself away from the bridge. His ring glints—he doesn’t want to see it. How dare this monster pretend to be in love with Yuuri? Yuuri doesn’t deserve this, not in any way. “Works out, doesn’t it? For everyone except for me.”

Fake Viktor turns, stepping away from Yuri, his back straight, his stance confident. He knows exactly what he is doing, and he knows just how terrified Yuri still is. It isn’t fair. Fake Viktor has seemingly eliminated the threat of his body being taken, but Yuri still can’t drop the fear that has been in him his whole life.

“Yuri?” Fake Viktor calls after a moment, turning around to fix him with a dark look. “I’d still suggest keeping your mouth shut. Yuuri may like you but…accidents happen.”

Yuri only makes it back to his own hotel room before he starts to cry. He isn’t just responsible for keeping himself safe anymore. Who’s to say the monster won’t get bored of Katsuki, too?

  

* * *

 

“Hey, JJ!” Yuuri calls as they sit down at the table. “Congratulations!”

JJ, currently in second place after an overrated and boring short program, grins and gave Yuuri his trademark hand sign. Viktor smiles like he cared and holds Yuuri a little closer.

“Of course! Nothing is more JJ style than winning!” JJ takes his seat as well. “Also, uh. Thanks for your advice. Those breathing exercises were really great.”

“No problem.” Yuuri ducks his head, blushing. He is so good, so sweet. Viktor doesn’t understand it, but he adores it anyway. Helping JJ can only hurt Yuuri’s chances of winning, and Yuuri wants so badly to win, but his better impulses always overrule his ambition.

Viktor wonders sometimes if some past version of himself had better impulses.

He doubts it.

“Of course, my Yuuri is going to win gold,” he says loudly. Yuuri nudges him half-heartedly with his elbow, but Viktor sees the corner of his mouth turn up in pleasure. The other skaters all laugh at this pronouncement. Let them laugh; Viktor knows Yuuri has the skill and the drive to win. He’s better than any of them.

And just in case—

He kisses Yuuri. He drags it out, thirty seconds longer than is socially appropriate. Everyone turns to stare at them, and in that moment of distraction, Viktor flicks the cap off of the vial in his pocket and dumps the contents into JJ’s water.

Luckily JJ is eating rare meat at dinner. No one will suspect poison until it’s too late.

Yuuri cries after the competition, when a sobbing Isabella Yang and JJ’s decrepit parents make a public announcement about JJ’s tragic death. His gold medal is cold comfort; as Yuuri explains, he feels like he only won because JJ was sick.

“Don’t say that, darling,” Viktor murmurs. “JJ was a good sportsman. He wouldn’t have begrudged you the gold, no matter what. He wouldn’t want to be remembered that way.”

“Y-you’re right,” Yuuri gasps. “I just—he was fine at dinner, and then—”

“I know,” Viktor says. He holds Yuuri tightly, as if he can crush the sadness inside him. It might have been better to dispose of JJ earlier, so that Yuuri wouldn’t have fresh memories of him when he found out he was dead. Viktor will remember that if he ever has to intervene again.

He doubts he will. Yuuri is so talented. He probably could have beaten JJ.

Still, could anyone blame Viktor? He is impatient.

He’s never been married before, and he’s eager to try it.

“And poor Isabella. If something like that happened to you —”

Viktor shudders. If something like that happens to him, he’ll be fucked. He’ll have to find another body, quickly, and he’ll have to find a way to get close to Yuuri again. There is no guarantee that Yuuri will love Viktor if he’s wearing another body. No, he’ll have to be very careful.

He’ll stay with Yuuri until the end.

 

* * *

 

They honeymoon in Paris.

Viktor doesn’t really care about sex. When he wants it, he has it, but feigning interest in the pleasure of his partners is so much work. Viktor has never bothered with long term relationships, unless they were useful, before he met Yuuri. If things weren’t working in a body, he didn’t waste time trying to fuck his way out of it—there was always someone else to be, some other flesh he could steal.

When the door of their hotel room closes behind him, though, and Yuuri, wearing a rumpled suit and a dazed smile, flops onto a bed scattered with rose petals, Viktor feels something.

Yuuri is so pretty, undoing his tie and throwing it across the room. Viktor advances on him, puts his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, feels him tense under the layers of fine fabric. Only the best for his Yuuri, after all. Viktor has lived long enough to have no taste for deprivation.

It’s strange. Yuuri’s happiness isn’t something Viktor can feel or taste or touch. It’s intangible. It’s fleeting. But it matters to Viktor, more than his own amusement or being warm and safe in every weather or chasing the high of success. It matters more than anything.

If Yuuri wants to win, Viktor will lose. If Yuuri wants a quiet life with his husband, Viktor can fit himself into that mold. If Yuuri wants to be loved…

“What?” Yuuri asks, when Viktor hovers over him too long without a word.

“I don’t understand you at all.”

Yuuri blinks. “Is that bad?”

Viktor closes the distance between them. He kisses Yuuri once, twice, an endless number of times, Yuuri’s body arched up against him. He forgets every decadent night he spent with others before.

“Let me take you apart,” Viktor whispers. _Let me learn every inch of your skin, every night, again and again. No matter how old we are, I want to know everything you are. I want to be everything you need._ “I want you.”

Is this how humans feel all the time? Viktor turns his head, lets Yuuri trail his tongue over his throat. No wonder none of them have any sense.

Viktor might go mad like this, in Yuuri’s arms. He doesn’t mind.

 

* * *

Yuuri walks in from his errands to the sight of his husband on the ground, clutching a poster of himself from when he was younger. Yuuri laughs slightly as he walks over and sits down beside him. The poster that Viktor is holding is from his junior days, with his long hair flowing behind him and his arms in a graceful spin.

Yuuri leans his head against Viktor’s shoulder with a smile. “I used to idolize you so much back then, you know.” He laughs, reaching out to touch the poster, and is shocked when Viktor winces and yanks it back, shoving it away from him.

Yuuri touches his shoulder hesitantly, but Viktor shies away from that too. He is looking in the direction of the posters, like he is thinking about something. Yuuri sits back a few feet, looking down at his feet before sighing.

“Viktor?” He scoots forward to wrap his arms around his husband, and Viktor leans into him. “Are you okay?”

Viktor stares ahead of himself, at the box of glossy posters, and turns to Yuuri, taking his hands into his own.

“I’m not Viktor Nikiforov,” he says completely seriously, and Yuuri looks at him in concern. Viktor stops for a moment, but then continues, walking slowly over to the posters, gesturing at them. “That’s not me.”

“Viktor, I know you’re worried about getting older and—”

“Yuuri, no.” Viktor sounds frustrated, and Yuuri sits down in front of him.

“I wasn’t Viktor when you admired him.”

_What the hell does that mean?_

“You were, even if you feel different or older or—” Viktor puts his hand over Yuuri’s mouth, and makes a frustrated noise.

“I killed my last body and transferred my soul into Viktor Nikiforov’s body so I could be younger and more attractive and I’ve only been Viktor Nikiforov since he cut his hair.” Viktor sounds seriously.

Yuuri’s heart stops.

“What do you mean?” He cups his husband’s cheek, and Viktor nearly growls, shoving him away.

“I mean you never admired me! You admired the Viktor this body had before me! You only love me. Put those away, I don’t ever want to see them again!” Viktor snaps. He gestures wildly at the posters.

“Viktor, we can just—”

“Put them away, Yuuri.” Viktor says in a low voice. “Yuuri, I stole this body. I’ve stolen so many bodies.”

Yuuri puts the posters away. He steels himself and comes back into the room. “I think we should go talk to a doctor about this.”

“Yuuri, no, I’m trying to tell you—”

“I love you, Viktor. No matter what. And I think a doctor could help.”

 

* * *

 

It takes Viktor almost three hours to dump Phichit’s body, because he keeps panicking.

 _Yuuri is going to be upset,_ Viktor thinks. _Yuuri is going to be so upset. He liked Phichit—I didn’t mean to kill him—_

And it’s true. Viktor didn’t mean to jump into his body, he just reacted poorly to having a gun pointed at him. Once he was there, Phichit put up a fight, and their minds were touching and Viktor felt Phichit wail soundlessly in horror as he saw what Viktor was.

He would have told Yuuri. So Viktor snapped his neck, and then took care of the mugger, and that left him with two bodies to dispose of. The mugger was fine; Viktor crammed him into the nearest dumpster. But Phichit—

If he’s just found, suspicion will go back to Viktor, who is the last person to have see him. But if he just disappears, Yuuri will be devastated. At the very least Viktor has to try and create closure. Which means he has to come up with a reasonable explanation for Phichit’s death.

Yuuri is going to cry. Viktor hates that.

Viktor also hates having to reanimate corpses, but this is an emergency, so he inhabits Phichit long enough to get him in the water and make it look like he fell off a bridge and drowned. He has to stash the Nikiforov body while he does this, and the entire time he’s away from it, he obsesses over it. When he’s finally back in the flesh he prefers, he is relieved.

Then he remembers he has to get home and explain why he’s back so late and wait until Phichit’s body is found and lie to Yuuri.

 _Yuuri_. Sometimes Viktor thinks Yuuri would be better off if Viktor switched bodies and kept away from him. But he doesn’t ruminate on this for long; he’s essentially selfish. He could never deprive himself of Yuuri’s company.

There’s an odd pain in his chest. It’s only after the funeral, Yuuri sobbing as the ashes are spread, that he identifies it as guilt.

 

* * *

 

They call it beautiful, illustrious. A fitting end to a fruitful career. Katsuki Yuuri deserves to step off of the ice from his final skate with a smile on his face, and tears in his eyes.

All Viktor can think of is how incredibly old he feels when he wraps Yuuri in his arms and leads him to the kiss and cry for the final time.  Yuuri had started the season saying this was going to be his last, and the doctors agreed it was a good plan.

Viktor dreads this skate the entire season, because it marks the end. He should have taken someone else’s body ( _Yuuri’s_ body) so long ago, but he’d fallen in love. His hair continues to thin and Yuuri complains more about his knees and feet daily.

Still, Viktor makes sure that he cheers loudest of all when Yuuri gets his last gold medal and holds it up for the world to see, his ring glinting under the bright lights of the rink.

They throw a party to celebrate his career as a skater. It’s nothing big, only a few of their close friends from the sport, and whoever of Yuuri’s family could show up. A little champagne, some food and chatting. So many people are congratulating Yuuri on such a great career, and Viktor is very proud of him. When he came to Hasetsu with the intentions of stealing Yuuri’s body for himself, he didn’t expect he’d be able to get this far on his own.

He loves Yuuri so much for it, though. So many people had teased him for his lovestruck expression over the past few years, but it was…strange, still. How much he genuinely loves Yuuri. Throughout the night, Yuuri comes over to him and leans into his side, looking tired but happy. He spends more time with their guests than with Viktor, and Viktor stands off to the side, watching him interact with everyone.

“You look happy,” Chris says. Viktor didn’t even noticed that he is so close. “A few years ago, you would have looked lonely and out of place at one of these.”

“A few years ago, I didn’t have Yuuri.”

Chris laughs, saying something else that Viktor doesn’t bother to hear.

Watching Yuuri is the only enjoyable thing about this party.

Once all of their guests leave, Yuuri cleans up before pressing himself tiredly into Viktor’s side. “It feels so long from when we met,” Yuuri whispers. “So much has changed.”

Viktor kisses the top of Yuuri’s head. “That’s because it has been so long, Yuuri.” Lifetimes, even. Enough time that Viktor would probably already be considering leaving Yuuri’s body, if he’d taken it over like the original plan, and not fallen in love.

“And now it’s just you and me.” Yuuri tilts his head so they’re kissing. “Forever.”

 _Forever_ , Viktor thinks, _is much shorter than humans imagine it to be_. Yuuri’s forever is only a miniscule part of Viktor’s. He’s existed long before Yuuri, and he’ll exist long after.

“For the rest of your life,” he corrects, knowing Yuuri can’t recognize the significance.

Yuuri smiles, and when he kisses Viktor this time, Viktor lets himself relax into it.


	3. all-pervasive suffering

 

“Hey, Yurio, can I borrow —”

Yuri slams the binder closed, but it’s too late. Yuuri has seen the picture of twenty one year old Viktor, hair loose, hand outstretched. It’s the last picture of Viktor, as far as Yuri knows.

“Is that Viktor?”

“Look, just shut up,” Yuri says. He tries desperately to keep the panic out of his voice. 

He’s an idiot. Yuuri might believe that Yuri is just a secret Viktor fan but fake Viktor will know. He’ll find out that Yuri tracked down his last five bodies. He’ll realize Yuri traced the bloody path fake Viktor has left across Europe in the past fifty years. He’ll see the seven murders Yuri suspects he’s committed in addition to the body snatching, including both of the real Viktor’s parents, two highly ranked fellow skaters, and one of the Nishigori triplets.

All Yuuri has to do is mention the existence of this binder to fake Viktor and he’ll probably kill Yuri, burn down his house with all the evidence inside, and somehow make it look like Yuri did it to himself.

Oh, god. Yuuri. Yuri has always assumed that he was safe, since fake Viktor has hung around for the past fifty years just to be with him, but— 

“Can I see?” Yuuri plucks the binder from Yuri’s fingers, doesn’t see Yuri’s expression of blind panic. “Viktor doesn’t like looking at pictures of himself from this far back. I swear he gets vainer every year.”

If Yuri were fake Viktor, he wouldn’t want to look at pictures of the guy he murdered and bodysnatched, either.

“You know how he is about his stupid hair.”

Yuuri does the unthinkable then. He turns the page.

The next page has an article on one side about the tragic death of a young French ballerina. Recently diagnosed with Huntington’s disease, she went into the basement of a performance hall and killed herself.

The other side has Yuri’s account of what he saw that night, in spidery handwriting. Yuri wrote it when they finally let him out of the institution, using a stolen pencil and a paper towel he saved from a trip to the bathroom. The lettering is faint, but it’s readable.

Yuri should snatch the binder out of Yuuri’s hand, but he can’t. Yuuri’s eyes move over the page, wide with horror. Yuri hasn’t dared to speak of this in decades

“Yurio, what the hell,” Yuuri says. “Was this—some kind of project?’

“It happened.” Yuri covers the face of that poor dead girl with a liver-spotted hand. “It happened. He killed her.”

“Yuri, that’s ridiculous.”

“He killed her and he stole the real Viktor’s body.”

“Don’t say that! The doctor says we shouldn’t feed his delusions— “

“He told you?” Yuri asks. His heart jumps alarmingly in his chest. “He told you?”

“He’s sick. He needs help, not—whatever the hell this is.” Yuuri throws the binder at him. Yuri tries to catch it but he can’t. It slips through his fingers and falls to the ground. 

“Don’t tell him about this.”

“Of course I won’t. It would upset him.”

Long after Yuuri has left the room, Yuri remains, clutching at his burning chest. 

“The bastard told him,” Yuri mutters. “How does it feel, fake Viktor? Who’s crazy now?”

 

* * *

 

“Vitya?”

Yuuri coughs, and Viktor rushes out of the kitchen to answer him. For a given value of ‘rush’, anyway; his speed isn’t what it used to be. 

(It’s still well above average, though. His orthopedist calls him a miracle. Either the Nikiforov genes are truly superlative, or Viktor’s powers are more far-reaching than he knew.)

“Yuuri?” He finds Yuuri in the bedroom, folding socks. Other than the box of tissues close at hand, there’s no reason to think anything is wrong.

Probably nothing is wrong. Viktor has learned, after a lifetime of minor illnesses, after a hundred arguments with Yuuri because he’s ‘overbearing’ when Yuuri is sick, that humans are resilient. And Yuuri has the best medical care money can buy, and Viktor to dote on him, so there’s no reason he should be unwell.

“Come help me with this.”

“But I hate laundry,” Viktor whines, even as he sits down beside Yuuri on the bed and begins folding undershirts. The clothes that need ironing he sets aside; he’ll do that, later. 

“I hate it, too.”

“Let’s just be naked.”

“It’s winter.” Yuuri throws a pair of socks at him. “And I need these clothes, we’re supposed to be going out to dinner tonight.”

“Mm,” Viktor says. He has no desire to go out to dinner, truth be told; whenever he has to eat with Yuuri’s irritating cabal of elderly friends, members of his seniors gaming group and former rinkmates, he can’t help but remember he still has plenty of poison and deft hands. 

Ah, but he’s getting old. Killing them all would be work, and going to dinner will make Yuuri smile, and afterwards they can curl up together and Viktor will rub Yuuri’s sore knees for him. The ointment Yuuri uses on them is disgusting, and frankly his deformed, arthritic knees aren’t pretty, but Viktor still does it, every day, and mostly he gets through it without agonizing about how wrinkled his hands are.

Between the two of them, the laundry gets put away. 

“Should we pack the closet today?”

“We can have the movers pack.”

“I really don’t want the movers packing some of our stuff.”

Viktor grins and drapes himself over Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri slips an arm around Viktor’s waist, and together they sit there and contemplate their closet.

They’re moving to a ground floor apartment, closer to the water, with a more accessible bathroom. On one hand, Viktor really doesn’t feel like packing up thirty-odd years of belongings and moving them across the city on his own; on the other hand, he definitely has at least one concealed box of possessions in that closet of which ownership of constitutes a felony.

His poisons, his knives, the crown jewels of at least one royal family that Viktor was once part of…

He meant to give them to Yuuri, he recalls, but he never could come up with an explanation for having them. 

“All right. I’ll get some boxes today.”

“I can come with you.”

“You’re limping.”

Yuuri makes a face. “I’ll use my cane.”

“You’ll stay in bed while I go.” Viktor ruffles his hair. “You can start taking out the summer clothes.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Yuuri says. His shoulders drop, though, and Viktor knows he’s won. Yuuri will insist on them doing all the bedroom packing themselves, now, as retaliation, but that’s all right, it will give Viktor a chance to figure out what he’s doing with the curare.

“Vitya—”

“Yes?” Viktor winces. Yuuri’s voice has taken on a nervous edge that he dislikes. 

“About the, um...the posters and things…”

He’s talking about all the memorabilia of Nikiforov’s life, before Viktor arrived. Before he met Yuuri, Viktor didn’t mind keeping it around; it was proof that the body was his, a reminder that he had excellent taste. Now…

Viktor’s not going to tell Yuuri that, though. He tried once already and ended up having to fake his way through several aggravating therapy appointments. He would love to be fully honest with Yuuri, to have Yuuri really and truly understand him, but he knows it’s impossible. Yuuri’s one failing is that he, like most humans, is morally opposed to theft and murder.

“What about them?”

“Do you want to bring them, or should I get rid of them?” Yuuri’s shoulder hunch. “I can do it for you.”

Viktor would dearly love to burn it all himself, but it’s not practical and it won’t alleviate Yuuri’s thinly veiled fear that he’s having a nervous breakdown. 

“Could you, darling? That would help.”

“Sure.” Yuuri squeezes his arm. “I’ll do it while you go get the boxes—mmph.”

Viktor kisses him silent. This, despite how decrepit they are, never loses its shine. Yuuri’s mouth is soft, his greying lashes unspeakably delicate; he still cringes from secondhand embarrassment whenever they watch reality television and tries to hide unhealthy purchases in the bottom of their shopping cart. 

He makes Viktor want to live with him forever.

“The phone,” Yuuri mumbles between kisses. Viktor hears it ringing, ignores it. “Vitya.”

“Cruel,” Viktor replies. He lets go of Yuuri and leans over until he can reach the phone sitting on the bedside table. It’s not a number he recognizes. He presses the phone into Yuuri’s hands, and then reluctantly leaves him in the bedroom while he gets his wallet and his coat.

It’s drizzling outside.Viktor smoothes what’s left of his hair down against the humidity before zipping up his jacket. He ducks back into the bedroom.

“Yuuri, I’m going.”

“Nine tomorrow morning should be fine,” Yuuri is saying. “Thanks.”

His face is white.

Viktor grips the doorframe so hard his fingers tremble. 

“They found something on the MRI.” Yuuri puts the phone down. “It’s...probably nothing…”

“Of course,” Viktor says. He crosses to the bed, and cradles Yuuri’s head, lets him hide his face against his stomach. “Everything will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

It is not fine.

  
  


* * *

 

Eventually the visiting nurses can only do so much, and the doctors insist Yuuri go to hospice. Viktor can’t bear the finality of it—hospice is just a pen where they keep the dying while their graves are dug—but Yuuri insists.

“I don’t want you to have to watch,” Yuuri tells him as they load him onto the stretcher.

Viktor snorts, despite himself. “Didn’t you tell me never to take my eyes off you?”

He holds Yuuri’s hands, and curses Yuuri’s stupid, treacherous skin and bones. If only he could take Yuuri’s soul as easily as he could take his body. If only he could lift every particle of Yuuri’s being out of the meat of him, and stuff it somewhere else, in someone else, someone healthier.

He’s tried. But Viktor can’t remember being a human well enough to figure out the trick of it, and if he did manage it and Yuuri didn’t like it—

Viktor hates the doctors and well-wishers for thinking that it might be best for Yuuri to die. He hates Yuuri for being more willing to die and be without him than to live like a monster with him. And he hates himself, for being unable to offer Yuuri the choice.

 

* * *

 

“Do you remember when you came to Hasetsu to be my coach?”

“Yes,” Viktor says, heart in his mouth. He’s dirty and tired, every night and day spent at Yuuri’s bedside these days. Yuuri is dying and Viktor has decided that it’s better to watch him go than to waste any of the time they have left together. For the first time in his life he barely notices his own pain. 

“I didn’t tell you then,” Yuuri whispers, in a rare moment of lucidity, “but I was really happy.”

_ I came to Hasetsu to kill you _ , Viktor thinks, and is violently grateful that Yuuri doesn’t know that, doesn’t have to spend a second of his last days thinking about that. 

“I’m glad I came,” he says. For all the pain, that, at least, is the absolute truth.

 

* * *

 

It is a beautiful funeral.

Or it would be, if it wasn’t Yuuri’s.

Yuri keeps his hands shoved in his pockets as the mourners mill around the open grave. He stays close to fake Viktor, watching him, trying to muster up the familiar rage.

Nothing comes. There is just the dull ache of loss, like a sprain. Like a bruise. He can almost forget about it, and then he’ll move wrong and remember. Yuuri is dead.

“Did you do it?”

“Hmm?”

Yuri gestures at the grave. “Did you kill him?”

Fake Viktor’s glare could freeze steam. “How dare you,” he whispers. “I would never.”

“You’re a monster.”

“Not for long,” fake Viktor says darkly. “I hate funerals. I hate this...this idolization of the corpse. This ceremony devoted to praising a lump of flesh.”

“It was Yuuri’s body.”

“There are billions of bodies in the world. What made him special was what was inside him.” Fake Viktor offers one of Yuuri’s friends a trembling smile. “I can’t wait to be out of this thing.”

“Yuuri wouldn’t want you to,” Yuri says. He wants to get away from Viktor, but he can’t. He’s glimpsed a poisonous humanity beneath the veneer. 

“Yuuri wouldn’t have wanted a lot of things.”

Yuri looks around the funeral again, this time trying to memorize the faces of everyone who looks to be under thirty. _Fake_ _Viktor has to be close to them to take them_ , he thinks. Has he already decided which of them he’ll kill? Yuuri’s death has started the timer, and Yuri is desperate to know how many seconds are left before fake Viktor disappears.

He has long since given up on the idea of stopping him. It is impossible. And at least, if he switches again, he’ll be gone. He’ll be out of Yuri’s life for good.

The coffin is carried in.

Yuri looks down, away—anywhere but at the box where his friend and mentor lays—and glimpses tears rolling down fake Viktor’s face.

“My Yuuri,” he mouths.

_ How is it _ , Yuri thinks,  _ that fake Viktor can have genuinely loved Yuuri and still be totally incapable of basic human empathy _ ?

The first shovelful of dirt is thrown into the grave.

Beside him, fake Viktor seizes his arm. He coughs loudly, and grabs at his chest. Yuri freezes, his expression a mask of horror. Now? He’s doing it right now?

_ I have to keep everyone away,  _ he thinks wildly. _ If I keep everyone away he can’t take them. _

_ But then he’ll take me. _

Yuri covers his mouth with his hand. He freezes. He does nothing as people rush up to Viktor to see if he is all right. He does nothing as a young man declares himself a medical student and holds fake Viktor’s wrist to take his pulse.

Fake Viktor meets Yuri’s eyes.

He winks.

And then he collapses, boneless, onto the dry earth of the cemetery, and the medical student beside him stumbles as fake Viktor kills him and takes his place.

“Yuri, are you all right?”

It’s Otabek. He’s shaking Yuri’s arm. His hair went white a long time ago, and there are smile lines around his eyes. Yuri was so relieved when Otabek’s first wrinkles appeared; he knew then his friend was safe.

The funeral is over.

Fake Viktor—fake whoever—was gone. 

“No,” Yuri says. He takes Otabek’s arm. He can’t shake the feeling that Yuuri is present here, watching him. Judging him.  “Let’s just get away from here. Please.”

 

* * *

 

Time passes very strangely after Yuuri’s death.

The days between his passing (peacefully in his sleep, thankfully, Viktor could never have borne watching him die suffering) and Viktor’s new body seem to last an eternity. Viktor was terrified the Nikiforov body would die before Viktor could swap, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave it until Yuuri was properly buried.

Yuuri isn’t there, of course. Viktor hates funerals. But it felt right, and Viktor has let his heart rule for long enough that he indulged himself. He watches them dump Yuuri’s corpse in the dirt, listens to all the sweet words people had to say about him with pleasure, and then flees.

The new body is meant to be temporary, so Viktor thinks nothing of it when he leaves it after only a few months for a Nigerian pastry chef. He does not let himself worry when he leaves her for an Egyptian sculptor, or when he then discards him for a green-haired teenager with a talent for the piano.

He catches himself playing the opening notes of Yuuri on Ice over and over again, and begins to realize that he is...not himself. He has always been able to shift his self-image before. He has always been able to become someone else when it is time.

Yet no matter what body he wears, he finds himself calling himself Viktor in his mind. No matter how closely he imitates the previous inhabitants, something always reminds him of Yuuri—a smile or a scent or a dog barking—and he’ll slip back into mannerisms that have become too ingrained after a lifetime at Yuuri’s side.

There is a pain in his chest that follows him from body to body, an ache of the soul that cannot be eased by treating the flesh. As if Yuuri took a piece of him when his spirit left his body. As if all the pleasures of the Earth were buried in the ground with his corpse. 

Five years pass.

Viktor goes through twenty bodies, trying out every corner of the globe, every profession that has ever interested him. He returns to Japan but finds no respite there. He flees to South America, a place he and Yuuri never visited together, and can’t escape the memories. Viktor has been blessed with perfect recall and never has he been tormented by it as he is now.

How lovely Yuuri was! He held Viktor tightly even in his dotage, could amuse Viktor even when they did nothing, always lit a fire in Viktor that burned away all his ennui.

And now he is gone, and Viktor, for the first time in his existence, has lost something that he cannot replace.

They made vows to each other, once: until death do us part.

Viktor begins to feel, as he grows unsettled in every skin, that it is not enough. To exist this way is untenable. He has to risk nonexistence, and go to where Yuuri is.

He doesn’t dare wait, once he makes his decision. He’s cheated death too often before. Viktor chooses the most disgusting body he can find: bedridden, in agony, closer to death with every rattling breath. 

It’s child’s play to break into the hospice center where it lives. Simpler still to bend over it and drop his current body on the green and white linoleum.

It takes him three days to die.

Three long awful days—Viktor sobs, screams, tries to end himself and curses the weakness of this body’s limbs—but in the end he succumbs. He feels death creep up on him like the darkness after a sunset, black fingers digging into his eyes, and then he is being pulled into and through his final flesh, into a place that he has never been, and if Yuuri is there—it will all have been worth it—

**Author's Note:**

> This fic includes the following:
> 
> \- descriptions of murders, including people being forced to kill themselves, and people dying because their bodies have been hijacked by a malovent being.There is also a death by poisoning.  
> \- body theft, wherein a malovent spirit steals people's bodies, pretends to be them, and lives out their lives.  
> \- suicide  
> \- consent issues -- while technically both yuuri and viktor consent to sex here, yuuri would not consent if he were aware of the truth, and viktor is using a body he stole from someone else. the real viktor is no longer present in the body.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] that boy is a monster](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363466) by [arkadyevna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arkadyevna/pseuds/arkadyevna)




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